


But the stars aren't as bright as they were in our old summer haze

by TheBrideOfTheWind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrideOfTheWind/pseuds/TheBrideOfTheWind
Summary: Instead of going straight to East-Watch-by-the-Sea, Jon stops by in Winterfell to reunite with his “siblings”.The title is from the song “so we drift” by Novo Amor.





	But the stars aren't as bright as they were in our old summer haze

**Author's Note:**

> I've finished this story for quite a while now, but to be honest, I was a little anxious about publishing it, because I usually write for a fandom that is much smaller, and a pairing that is an even smaller part of it.
> 
> So, I'm kinda jumping in at the deep end with this one. Sorry for rambling and I hope you enjoy!

The sun is already setting when he finally arrives in Winterfell, the snow-clad meadows glowing pink in the gloaming. Davos rides by his side, Gendry and Jorah behind them. It’s cold, and he laughs at himself for thinking so, maybe he spent too much time on the southern shore after all. 

Albeit he didn’t send a raven, they are awaiting him, Arya leaping into his arms as soon as he dismounts his horse. His heart dances in his chest as he catches her, her frame still much smaller than his. When he sets her down, he takes a moment to look at her while she beams up at him, clad in wool and leather, needle hanging on her hip. 

“Little sister,” he murmurs, and for a moment his serious exterior crumbles and he breaks into a rare smile. She’s grown, her features less childish, and there’s a hardness around her mouth, but she still has the same mischievous glint in her grey eyes, the same crooked grin on her lips. There are no words to describe how overcome he is with joy to see her again, yet there’s something nagging at the back of his mind, dark and smothering. 

She’s not there.

He ruffles Arya’s brown hair like he used to when they were younger before he walks to Bran and hugs him, too, his eyes still searching for the familiar head of copper hair, for the soft smile that will play on her lips when she catches sight of him.

But other than Littlefinger, sneering at him like he knows something he doesn’t, there’s no one else on the battlements. Jon clenches his fist, then touches his own neck with his right hand, his grey eyes never leaving Baelish’s, until the sneer finally disappears from the older man’s face to his utmost satisfaction. 

By now, his companions have descended their horses as well, Mormont keeping his head down as he ordered him to do if he doesn’t want to lose it. Arya is walking towards Gendry with wide eyes, the tall, muscular man freezing in his place, a similar look of wonder on his face. She stills a few inches away from him before he takes a long stride and puts his arms around her, gently and delicately, as if he’s afraid she might break or disappear right in front of his eyes. 

“I thought you were dead,” he overhears Arya say with a noise that’s half-laugh and half-cry. “Could say the same about you,” Gendry chuckles as his solemn face breaks into a wide grin, his little sister giggling into his broad chest.

Jon is watching them with furrowed brows, not knowing what to do or think about this heartfelt reunion. He clears his throat, because there are more urgent matters and not because he’s jealous, or at least that’s what he tells himself, and they reluctantly part, still staring at each other like long-lost lovers.

“Where’s the Lady of Winterfell?” he asks, impatience in his voice. A few men turn their heads following his words, and Bran and Arya share a look he can’t quite place. “Where is Sansa?” he asks again, more quiet, but not less exasperated.

“She’s in the Godswood,” Arya says after a moment of silence. “Praying.”

He nods. As much as she believed in fairy tales – not much unlike him – she had always believed in some higher power, let it be the old or the new Gods.

“She’s been praying a lot these days,” Bran adds, and again, there’s something in his voice, something about the way he says it that throws him off. If he didn’t know better, he would say it sounds almost wary.

He can feel their gazes following him as he makes his way towards the walls of the Godswood. Men and women nod at him as he passes them, some looking down, some whispering, some falling silent, but he doesn’t spare much of a thought about it. 

Ghost appears out of the dark, nuzzling his hand, then trotting away, probably to chase some wild animal outside of Winterfell’s safe walls. He’s confident the white direwolf had a watchful eye on his family when he was gone, as he made sure right before he left.

The closer he gets to the Godswood the more he can feel it, the tranquillity and the peace, and the heaviness of time. The old magic that seems to lie over this place. 

The air smells like moss, earth, and pine needles – and snow. He shudders when a cold gust of air hits him, pulling the fur cape Sansa made him closer to his chest. The blood-red leaves of the old weirwood tree rustle in the wind, nearly sounding like a whisper. Somewhere, a bird warbles, high and shrill, the sound fading into the distance. Other than that, it’s eerily quiet.

There’s a dark figure curled up between the heart tree and the black pool in front of it.

“Sansa?” he whispers as he walks closer, and she looks up at him, eyes blue as a winter morning, her auburn hair loose and cascading down over her shoulders, a beacon in the grey and white surrounding her.

“I’m praying,” she says, as if he wouldn’t know himself, as if he couldn’t tell. There’s ice underneath her words, but her voice is the sweetest sound he’s heard for many moons. He takes a cautious step towards her, the snow crunching under his heavy leather boots, and he almost feels bad for disturbing the quietness, like he’s intruding something.

“I’ve stopped praying a long time ago.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says, melancholy swinging in her voice.

“Don’t be. There is nothing they have to say to me. So I stopped asking.”

“Remember how we all used to come here with father when we were younger.” Her eyes wander over the old tree and the trail of crimson leafs that are spread like drops of blood on the snow. And he nods, although it’s hard for him to bring back the old memories sometimes. Since his resurrection, it has become almost impossible to discern his real memories from wishfulness anymore.

“It’s different here,” she tells him with bright eyes. “The old Gods are still powerful in this place. Can’t you feel it?”

He shakes his head as he kneels down beside her, the trunk of the weirwood tree cold against his back. “Maybe I’m too numb to feel anything anymore.”

“You can feel it,” she says before she takes his hand, her fingers small against his. “Here,” she guides his hand to the old tree, the white bark glowing ghastly in the pale light. The face carved in it is staring at him with sad eyes, mouth opened in desperation.

He remembers how she took his hand before, begging him to take back Winterfell right after he swore never to fight again. It seems a hundred years ago. He’s never felt like he was starving for touch, but there’s something about her that makes him feel at ease whenever she touches him, that makes his heart both light and heavy at the same time. And after everything she’s been through, he can’t help that overwhelming feeling of protection, the bounden duty of never letting any harm happen to her again. 

Despite the gloves, Jon imagines that he can’t feel anything but the warmth of her hand against his, and he wishes he could pull his hand away, as he wishes he could pull his gaze away from her face, her cheeks ivory and rosy, her lips the colour of wine.

“Can you hear it?” she murmurs, still holding his hand, the only thing he can hear the frantic pounding of his own heartbeat. He shakes his head, and a small laugh escapes her lips, bright and clear as a spring day.

“You don’t listen properly then,” Sansa whispers into his ear, a strand of her hair brushing his cheek, and he forgets how to breathe for one endless moment. “Try again.”

He closes his eyes and tries to even his breath, tries to calm down his heart and still the noise in his head.

But, nothing. 

Sansa gives his hand an encouraging squeeze, and so he tries again, tries to remember how he has prayed before, tries to remember how he usually centres himself during a battle.

He listens to the wind murmuring, the leaves rustling, and if he concentrates, he may make out a sound somewhere, far away and barely audible, a sigh, a whisper.

“Snow,” they say. “Stark,” they say. “King” and “Queen”. 

He has to shake himself as if to get rid of a spell, as if to break free. _Is he going crazy?_ But then, between fire spitting-dragons and blue-eyed undead, talking trees doesn’t seem quite a stretch.

Sansa is watching him with wide eyes; her lips parted in astonishment. _A rose in bloom_ , he thinks. No, he corrects himself as he takes her in, kneeling on the frozen ground beside the tree, hair wind-tousled, face flushed from the cold, the grey fur slung over her shoulder. _She’s no rose. She’s a wolf like me._

“I’m glad you are back,” she says. Her blue eyes lock with his, looking nearly as dark as his own in the dying light.

“Me, too.” He wants to say so much more, but his tongue lies heavy like a stone in his mouth. He knows that he needs to talk to her, sooner rather than later. And he wants to tell her about the dragons, about the dragonglass, about the queen. Maybe even what he’s about to do, what he has to do. But he can’t. Winterfell is and always has been his sanctuary, and Sansa – maybe he just foolishly wants to dwell for another moment before everything falls apart. 

A few snowflakes are tangled in her hair, her breath crystallizing into silver clouds in the air. He’s certain he has never seen something so enthrallingly beautiful.

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, if this is even possible. He’s been constantly thinking of her, days and nights, her words echoing in his mind, the imprint of her fingertips on his skin, the memory of her scent in his nose. He’s even dreamed about her a few times in the grey granite walls of his chamber. And he dreamed about Ghost, his body pressed against milky calves at night, slender fingers knotted in his white fur, till he didn’t know where the man ended and the wolf began. Somewhere along the line, he almost stopped feeling guilty about it.

“I was afraid you would never come back, like father, like Robb.” Sansa blinks, once, twice, a single tear streaming down her face. He catches it with his gloved fingers, his hand lingering for a moment too long. A soft sigh leaves her mouth, her eyelashes fluttering faintly as she looks down again. “I was afraid you –” Her voice cracks, and she hides her face in the shadows.

“I’m here,” he murmurs as she leans forward and he pulls her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. It is as much as he will allow himself. 

“And I’ll come back. I promise.” _And then I’ll never leave you again._ He’s afraid to say the words out loud, though, afraid that he’s just giving empty promises, just giving her hope where’s nothing to hope for. 

Sansa is heavy in his arms, and he closes his eyes, all the noise in his head falling silent, everything else stilling for one fleeting, fragile, moment. 

And she smells like winter; she smells like the north, she smells like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
